


Wolves in the Night

by partialconstellations



Series: to feel alive [6]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bisexual Jon Snow, Biting, Established Relationship, Lesbian Sansa Stark, M/M, Past Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Wedding Planning, proceed carefully if you like Daenerys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-03-05 13:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18829207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialconstellations/pseuds/partialconstellations
Summary: In which Tormund and Jon get married, Jon finally gets to take a fucking nap, and literally nobody wants Jon to rule anything (not necessarily in that order).





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> a) This is quite rough. It's literally scenes picked and chosen from a longer work I didn't have the energy to finish.
> 
> b) I'm quite glad I started writing this before S8 started airing, otherwise it would have ended up a lot more angry and a lot less schmoopy. (Justice for Ghost!)
> 
> Enjoy!

“The Wall has fallen.”

Silence hung between them; the words echoed between his ears, hollow. He could almost feel his heart miss a beat. He tried to form words, so many words, but nothing came out. Then, finally: “Tormund?” he croaked.

He knew it was stupid, knew there were more _important_ matters, more pressing matters, they would all be dead within a week, and yet. If he learned, right now, that he had failed to protect another person he loved, sent him, _knowingly_ , into danger … he didn’t know if he could bring himself to care if the rest of the world burned.

Sansa wordlessly handed him the small scroll. Jon squinted at the scrawled note, in an unfamiliar hand. He had planned to scan them for mention of Tormund, even any mention of the wildlings.

Instead, four words immediately stood out to him: _They have the dragon._

“No,” he murmured, blinking. In trying to rally the rest of the Westeros, trying to convince them that the White Walkers were a threat, he had ruined everything. Handed them their greatest weapon. Doomed everything and everyone.

Sansa’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing. “Don’t worry, Jon. He’s going to be fine.”

He stared at her, not seeing. “What?”

She pointed at the note, still grasped in his hand. “T. injured during breach,” she read out. “I thought you meant that.”

“No, this.” He shook his head, throwing the note on the table. “This is my fault. I asked her to come rescue us when we ranged beyond the Wall. They killed one of her dragons, and _they brought it back_.”

Sansa didn’t gasp exactly, just inhaled loudly. Probably the closest she came to show true emotion these days. “I wondered why there were only two,” she added quietly. “This explains it.”

Jon nodded. “I thought it was only dead. That would have been kinder.” He gulped, as realisation dawned. “I have to tell her.”

 

* * *

 

Jon didn’t even have time to react to the giant, bearded man entering the room before he was pressed up against the wall, Tormund’s body so close to him that it felt hard to breathe. Tormund’s hand was in his hair and pulling his head back – a little too roughly – his head bumped against stone. But then Tormund’s mouth was against his throat, sucking a spot next to his man’s apple, beard scratching, before he could even say anything. And then every thought had left his mind and before long Jon was moaning. It felt good, _so_ good, to have him back.

“I’m not leaving your side again,” Tormund growled against his neck. “I’m not going to die fighting an undead dragon if I can’t tell you you’re being stupid for not running as far away as possible when we still had the chance. We wanted to get _warm_.” And with that, his mouth found Jon’s, first only kissing him, savouring the contact. Jon tapped him, twice, where his hand was pressed against Tormund’s chest, and he could hear a rumble that seemed to come from deep below before Tormund bit down on his lower lip, pulling it between his teeth.

They were interrupted by someone clearing their throat theatrically. Tormund let him go, clearly unwilling to. “You’re bleeding,” Arya said, pointing at her lower lip. Jon touched his thumb to his lip, hastily wiping it.

Tormund beamed.

“Bran asked to see you.”

“Right,” Jon said, pulling a hand through his hair. “Couldn’t he have picked a better moment? I thought he knew everything now.”

“He asked to see _both_ of you,” Arya clarified, shrugging. She looked up at Tormund. “You’re Tormund. Sansa told me about you.” She wiggled her eyebrows, an oddly comforting movement that reminded Jon more of the little sister he used to have, not the one he had now. “I’m Arya, by the way. I’m Jon’s sister.”

“The dead one, aye. I figured.” He looked fondly down at Jon. “Doesn’t your family know that dead means dead?”

Thoughts of Robb and Rickon, Father, entered his mind but he quickly shooed them away. He didn’t have time for ghosts, not now. And he knew that Tormund hadn’t meant it like _that_. “We’re resilient,” he replied, instead. “Come on. Let’s go see what’s going on.”

 

* * *

 

“So. You and the dragon woman, eh?” Tormund said, cornering Sansa on her way to her chambers after dinner. “Seems like I missed all the good parts.”

Sansa could feel herself flush. “No. There is no me and the dragon woman.”

“But you want there to be.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than gossip like an old fishwife?”

“Well, your brother, but he’s busy.” Tormund rolled his eyes. “He’s been acting cagey, since the Raven told him his parentage. I don’t see why it matters.”

Sansa sighed. “Remember how I told you how his entire life he just wanted to belong, _really_ belong? His entire life was defined by wanting to be a Stark. Now he found out he isn’t even that.”

“But just because your father isn’t his doesn’t make you any less family. His mother still is a Stark.”

“That’s not how we trace bloodlines, Tormund,” Sansa said quietly, “His father is a Targaryen, that makes him one. Lineage comes from the father.”

“Nothing you people do makes _sense_.” Tormund sighed in frustration. “He still has the same amount of Stark blood than he thought he had before.”

“I know,” Sansa replied quietly. “And I’m sure that deep down, he knows. Just be with him. I think you just being there for him would help him.”

“I can do that,” Tormund rumbled.

 

* * *

 

To say that Ghost took up half the bed was only an exaggeration in the sense that Tormund took up half, Ghost another third and Jon somehow managed to get buried beneath them both. Tormund’s leg was entangled with his own, a hand spread over Jon’s heart, while Ghost was quietly snoring at Jon’s feet.

“I don’t want to disappoint my people,” Jon confessed, breathing in Tormund’s smell next to him deeply. “Everybody seems to want something from me and I don’t know anything about ruling. I’m just … exhausted. It’s the only thing I feel anymore. Pure, bone-shattering exhaustion. I don’t want to be king. Of anything. Not the North, let alone seven kingdoms.”

“Then don’t be,” Tormund replied, quietly, as if that was the most natural conclusion in the world. “Sansa already does the ruling. She wants to and she’s good at it. I say you should let her. Your people love her, as well. If we survive this, just fuck off and be done with everything.”

He wished his life were still that simple. “Run away with you?”

Tormund chuckled. “Why not, little crow?”

“And then what?”

“Is that offer of marriage still on the table? You have a godswood.”

 

* * *

 

 Jon looked at Daenerys Targaryen – his fucking _aunt_ , for the gods’ sakes – who had descended upon him like a cloud of thunder and rolled his eyes. “I’m not interested in the stupid Iron Throne. I don’t want it. After we’re finished with the White Walkers, you can have everything south of the Neck. We’ll even help you take the bloody thing. The North is my sister’s. Agree, and you won’t ever have to see me again.”

“The North is your sister’s,” Daenerys repeated, slowly, as though she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

“I never wanted to be king. This is _her_ birthright. I’ve already bent the knee to you. I need your help. What makes you think that I’d go back on my word now?”

“The fact that you just told me that I can have everything _south_ of the Neck. It seems to me that you still cling to your idea of an independent North then, despite what you’ve told me. Despite that you’ve _bent the knee_.”

_Shit._ He still thought she was dangerous, unfit to rule, but she wasn’t stupid. At his side, Ghost’s fur bristled. He had never taken to Daenerys, either.

“And,” she continued, “what will you do, after you’ve handed Sansa your _kingdom_?” Her words were laced with poison.

He shrugged. “Build a nice little house somewhere, far away from other people, so that nobody bothers me about thrones and ruling? I’m tired, Daenerys. Your family means nothing to me and neither does your throne. The Starks are my family and I will fight for _them_. But I see no reason to fight _you_. They just want the North. I just want to live in peace and if I never have to fight anyone or anything again, it’ll be too soon. So, just stop seeing me as competition and work with me here.”

The glare she gave him as she turned away without another word was unsettling, but at least she hadn’t immediately called for his head.

 

* * *

 

“I fucked up,” Jon told Sansa that evening. “I might have let slip that we’re still going for independence, after we’re done.”

“You’re the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Jon. Your claim is better than hers.”

He rolled his eyes. “But you already made me all this wolf clothing. It would be a shame to waste it. Also, she still is the one with the dragons. Slight power imbalance there.”

Sansa stopped in her tracks. “Didn’t you say that one of them let you touch it?”

“Yes?”

“It must have recognised you were family—”

Jon groaned. “Not you, too.”

“—so to speak,” she continued, unerringly, looking at him. He knew that face. It meant she had a plan and he was almost certain he’d hate it. “The one that let you touch it, which was it?”

“Rhaegal.” He groaned, realising where she was going. “I’m not going to try and steal her dragon. That’s madness.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, she can’t ride both at the same time. If they’re really her children, she obviously has a favourite child. Also, it _is_ named after your father,” she pointed out, smirking.

No. Enough was enough.

“Ned Stark was my father,” he burst out. “Why do all of you think this sudden realisation changes _anything_? He raised me with all of you – together – and I honestly understand why he never told me about my mother in the first place. To keep all of this shit that’s happening right now from happening in the first place. We have bigger problems, I don’t want the bloody thing, and I’m _sick_ of it.” He came to a stop in front of the fire, his back to her. His chest ached. Anything to exclude him, it seemed.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said quietly, reaching for his hand. He was tempted to snatch it away but deemed it childish. Her touch was warm against his skin. Warmth was so hard to come by now. Whenever he touched another person these days, it just reminded him what he’d lost. He only consciously touched Tormund now. “Don’t worry about Daenerys, I can handle her.” He rarely saw Sansa smile and the way she did now unsettled him.

Jon rose, to leave her to her work, hoping things had been settled, for the moment. “There is another thing,” she said, quietly.

“Yes?”

She looked up at him, her expression schooled into calculated calmness. “There was a raven. Theon is on his way home. Is that going to be an issue?”

Jon looked down at his hands, quietly weighing his options. _Fuck it._ Despite everything, despite their history, Theon was family. “No. There won’t be.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jon went to see Sansa in her solar after he had let Tormund's words sink in for a week, afraid he’d change his mind. She sat by the fire, a candle and a book on the table next to her, sewing … _something_. All he could tell was that it was large and dark grey, with some sort of embroidery that would surely be some sort of intricate pattern once she was finished.

“How long does it take to sew a marriage cloak?” he asked without preamble.

To her credit, she didn’t look particularly surprised, just tired. “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of this?”

He mutely shook his head, his hands shoved down his sides. She gestured towards the spare chair by the fire. “Sit.”

After he had sat down, Sansa set down her sewing and squarely looked him in the face. “Do you remember when you and Tormund talked about children?”

Jon groaned, burying his head in his hands. “Unfortunately.” The reply came muffled from behind his hands.

“He came to see me after and asked about inheritance.”

“I know. I really don’t understand why you two seem so intent on the idea of me fucking other people.” He almost regretted his choice of words instantly, but Sansa didn’t even flinch. Right. In some ways, her life had been just as tough as his. Tougher than his, arguably.

“He thinks our ways screwed you up so much that you don’t know what you’ve prepared yourself to live without. He obviously adores his children and thinks you’ll miss out because you’ve made up your mind about this too early for the wrong reasons. Jon, have you even _met_ his daughters?”

His stomach tightened into a guilty knot. He avoided Sansa’s eyes. Recognising Fryd at Eastwatch didn’t count.

“You should. Seven hells, you want to marry the man and haven’t even bothered to talk to them. They’re an important part of his life.”

“You never answered my question,” he argued, avoiding hers.

In lieu of a reply, Sansa got up to walk over to a chest made of dark wood, covered in carvings of a forest, pushed into a corner of the room. It looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. She opened and pulled an overly long cloak from it, holding it up. “It’s longer than traditional because I thought Tormund would look quite silly if it only reached to his shins,” she explained, sounding rather apologetic.

Jon opened his mouth, to joke perhaps. _But I won’t look silly tripping over it?_ Instead, what came out was, “This is amazing, Sansa.”

He got up to take a closer look. It was done in the Stark colours inverted, a dark grey cloak, just a shade lighter than black, an embroidered white wolf’s head in a simple crown dominating most of the back. The only sign that could conceivably point to his Targaryen heritage was the wolf’s bright red eyes and even those were debatable when they could justifiably just mirror Ghost’s. The edges were trimmed in fur, with intricate direwolves, all in different shades of grey, running along the borders. “I put five direwolves on the border, one for each of us. Here, let me show you.”

She took the cloak up and ran her fingers along her own stitching, stopping at the one which would settle on the wearer’s left shoulder. “This is Arya.” A dark grey wolf, only slightly lighter than the cloak itself, with extended claws, ready to pounce, with bristled fur. Below that, a wolf done in lighter grey, sitting, three-eyed. “I wasn’t sure whether I should truly give him the three eyes, but it is who Bran is now.” She sounded sad. Then she took up the right shoulder, pointing to a wolf sitting poised, with a lifted paw holding a quill, only slightly lighter than Arya’s, darker than Bran’s. “This is me.” She ran her finger further down, pointing towards a smaller, shaggy wolf, with its tail extended, like a dog’s at play. It was surrounded by brambles. “Rickon.” Her voice thickened and he saw her swallow. Finally, her fingers pointed to the one at the bottom, the lightest grey compared to the others, below Jon’s, also crowned, this one more reminiscent of the bronze crown the old Kings of Winter had worn, also surrounded by brambles, interwoven with a river; just the slightest nod to their own Tully heritage, or, perhaps, that once upon a time, Robb had also been King of the Trident. “And here’s Robb.” Her eyes glistened.

“Sansa …” he said, swallowing around thick lump the that had formed in his throat.

“You hate it.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Thank you.” The angle was a bit awkward, she was taller than him and still holding the cloak, but it was the only fitting response he had in him. Her hands were shaking against his chest and he thought he heard a sob. He clutched her tighter to himself. They stood that way for a few minutes, until Sansa pulled way. She ran a hand over her eyes and turned away, trying to collect herself.

Her voice was steady when she turned back to him and said, “I didn’t know if I should have made another one, for Tormund. But these take a while.”

“No, the Free Folk don’t have wedding ceremonies as such. They say a few words in front of a heart tree in private. Or abduct their wives.” He shrugged. “Maybe we can incorporate that instead.” He wondered if Ygritte calling herself “his woman” would have been enough that they would have been considered married. He supposed it didn’t matter now. She, too, was dead and gone, like so many others.

“We’re not going to have him abduct you, pretend or not,” Sansa said sternly.

Jon chuckled. “I’ll talk to him, see what he wants to do.”

Jon’s fingers were still idly tracing Sansa’s stitches on the cloak. All these details must have taken an eternity to do, especially if she had been working on it by herself. He supposed that must have been at least partly the reason that a lot of Houses handed their marriage cloaks down, only sewing new ones when it was a particularly important marriage. “How long have you been working on this?”

“Since before you went to Dragonstone. After Tormund asked me about children.”

Gods, when did she come to know him so well?

“ _Am_ I being selfish? Am I placing too much responsibility on your shoulders?”

“That’s hard to answer. Despite everything, I _want_ to have a family, Jon. I told the lords I would, when we told them you swore fealty to Daenerys and again, when your parentage came out.” She stopped, then, clearly thinking her next words over. “If I’m honest, though, I don’t know if that’s something I’ll be able to do. I don’t know if I can ever lay with a man again.”

“I know you haven’t had the best history—”

“That’s an understatement,” Sansa interrupted, huffing unladylike.

“—but you’ll grow to love someone someday. I won’t force you into anything you don’t want. We’re done with marrying for alliances and convenience. It will be your choice.”

She stared at him as if he had grown a second head, before understanding dawned on her face. “You don’t know,” she said, amusement tinting her voice.

“What?”

“I’m not interested in men. At all. I’m not like you, I don’t like both.”

Jon groaned, the realisation finally dawning on him. “Oh. _That_ is what Tormund kept referring to.”

“You really _are_ thick sometimes.” She smiled. It was small, but genuine.

“To be fair, you’ve talked about knights and their princesses a lot and how romantic it all was when we were growing up.”

“It _was_ romantic. And I also talked a lot about how in love I was with Joffrey before I even met him,” she replied pointedly. “I assumed Tormund would have told you. _He_ figured it out.”

“Tormund doesn’t really tell things to others that he thinks aren’t his to tell.”

“A good quality in a man. It’s the furthest you could go from being convenient, you falling for him, but I’m glad you did. He’s a good person.”

“I’m rather fond of him, too.” He smiled at her. “Thank you, for this.” He still held onto the cloak, couldn’t believe that she’d done this, for him. Although he should have known, as soon as he had seen the white wolf’s banner outside Winterfell, telling Daenerys in no uncertain terms what the North thought of her. It hadn’t made things easy.

“I don’t think Bran is going to have children, if he is even able to,” Sansa said abruptly, the issue of inheritance clearly still on her mind.

“Arya?” Jon suggested quietly.

They looked at each other.

“Gods, no,” Sansa said, a sound between a gasp and a laugh escaping from her lips.

“She’s been spending a lot of time with Gendry,” Jon pointed out.

“He’s a _bastard_ ,” Sansa said, unthinking.

Jon gripped his seat. “So am I. You’ve been married to one, too.”

She looked at him, as if to say, _And look how well_ that _turned out._ Instead she said, “But you’re not.”

Jon shook his head, too tired to argue with her. “It might not matter as much anymore. We’ll figure something out. It might not matter, in the end. We could all die.”

“We’ll have to discuss how we’re going to get you two married,” Sansa said quietly, changing the topic again.

“I want you to give me away,” Jon replied immediately. “You’re head of House Stark and you’re my sister.”

“I’m not, though.”

Jon grunted. “Yes, you _are_. I was raised as part of House Stark, however low, and I’m getting married as a member of House Stark. So, you’re my sister.” He shook the cloak that all but yelled _Stark_ in defiance at her.

“Alright.” She went quiet for a moment. “This will be different. I don’t know if a woman has ever given a man away. To another man.”

“Probably not,” Jon agreed amicably. “We’re going to have to officiate differently.”

“I’m sure Bran could do it. We’ll find a way to include Tormund’s daughters.” Sansa shot him a look that clearly meant _get to know them_. “What about our bannermen?”

“The Northern lords shouldn’t mind too much, maybe excepting the Manderlys. I’m not so sure about the Vale though. They’re yours, not mine. And they and the Manderlys have the same gods. The Seven aren’t as forgiving as the Old Gods.”

“We’ll invite them, we can’t let them feel snubbed. We’ll also tell them it’s their choice to attend or not, but we won’t accept any dissent at the wedding.”

 

* * *

 

 The clap on Jon’s back felt odd. Hearing Theon’s voice so close to his ear again, even odder. “Getting married, eh? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen the preparations with my own eyes.” He sounded happy, so genuinely happy, without any of the scorn that had always seemed to linger between them, that he didn’t want to bring up what happened on Dragonstone between them.

Jon shrugged. “It’s complicated.” Then he sighed. “Welcome home, Greyjoy.”

Theon’s face broke into a smirk. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Where’s your man? I really want to meet the idiot stupid enough to marry Jon fucking Snow.”


	2. Ascending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [Saebrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saebrin/). Thank you!
> 
> Everyone, please enjoy the sappiness.
> 
> ETA: I just had a look at the first chapter and realised I messed up the scene order when I copied and pasted it together. So, full disclosure: I went back and re-ordered the scene with Theon to happen after Jon talks to Sansa about marriage, so Theon doesn't magically know Jon's getting married before anyone else anymore.

It took a while to find the tent Tormund’s daughters shared with their mother, but luckily, everybody seemed to know Tormund’s family and after he was pointed in the right direction by an old spearwife and a very young, very excited child, he found himself in front of the tent flaps with his hand raised, as if to knock, mulling over how stupid he must look. Ghost nosed at the small of his back, as if wanting to give him a shove but being too polite not to. It was a silly thing to ascribe to an overgrown wolf, and yet, fitting.

“In or out,” the young woman who was at Eastwatch – Fryd – said while she brushed past him with an armful of firewood. Otherwise, she showed no indication of how she felt about his sudden appearance. He took a deep, steadying breath and followed her in.

“It’s about time you showed your face here,” the woman – Tormund’s daughters’ mother, and there _had_ to be a better term for that particular familial relationship – sitting on the floor fletching arrows said. She’d barely looked up from her work. “I’d almost thought that loud-mouthed lout made you up.” Then, she did look up at him, smirking. “Fryd says you’re not entirely useless and I’m more likely to believe _her_ than him.”

Jon looked at Fryd with an obvious question on his face, whose entire interaction with him so far had been at Eastwatch, and they hadn’t even talked then. She shrugged. “I have heard the tales the people in the castle tell. And the Crows, too. They don’t all like you, but they all respect you. Papa likes to boast, but he doesn’t boast about you, so there must be truth to it.” She nodded sagely, like that piece of information made even a lick of sense.

“But, I wondered, what kind of man doesn’t want to meet his man’s family? For three years?” her mother continued, her tone accusing. “He can’t be that honest, then, can he?” She looked at him, with a sharpness in her eyes that felt like she was about to devour him whole. Jon looked at his feet, shame coiling in his gut. “Fryd, get your sister. You’re almost grown, it’s her who has to accept him.”

Accept him?

A smirk, so much like Tormund’s, spread across Fryd’s face as she stalked back towards the tent’s entrance. “Lu,” she bellowed, while leaning half out of the tent, holding the flap back. “Get in here, you little monster.”

The younger girl came in just a few moments later. “I made a friend!” she declared, eyes bright, and Ghost, reaching up to her shoulders, followed her in, and if a wolf could look pleased, Ghost was doing exactly that.

Both Fryd and their mother startled, both of their hands’ going to knives at their belts. If Ghost really meant them harm, they both wouldn’t be able to stop him, but Jon admired their instincts. These women knew how to protect their home, their family.

“It’s fine,” Jon said hurriedly, his hand coiling protectively at Ghost’s back. “I found him as a pup. He’s just protective.” Of his family, is what he didn’t add. Apparently, Ghost had already decided to adopt Tormund’s children.

The tension only slowly went out of the tent, but it did, and Ghost flopped down on the floor, next to Annlaug.

“Huh,” Fryd said, looking at her mother, a little lost.

“Excuse me,” Jon said, before he’d lose his nerve. “I never caught your name.”

The woman smirked. “Birgit.” Her eyes travelled up and down his body, and suddenly he felt, like he was being assessed. “I don’t really see why he chose you, of all people, you’re very little.” Then she looked at Ghost. “But if a direwolf has chosen you, maybe there is something more to you.” He could see why Tormund had chosen her for his daughters’ mother. He couldn’t really say the same the other way around. Birgit looked at Annlaug, who was petting Ghost’s belly like it was the most important thing in the world. “Lu. What do you say?”

“He’s got a wolf,” Annlaug said, as if that was the most important takeaway. “And he makes Papa happy.” She looked up at Fryd.

“You’ll do,” Fryd declared. He didn’t really know how she managed to make gruff approval sound like a dismissal at the same time, but somehow, she managed. Absurdly, she’d sounded like Sansa.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa had invited Jon and Tormund for a, as she had called it, small private family dinner to the family rooms that he had been rarely allowed in as a child. Even now, entering them felt wrong and like he was intruding. To find Theon fucking Greyjoy sitting at Sansa's left was even more unsettling. Even though, now that he thought about it, it was stupid of him to assume Theon wouldn’t be invited. He _was_ family, after all, whatever that meant in the grander scheme of things. Ghost, the traitor, was lying asleep by the fire, behind Theon’s chair.

“Who are you?” Tormund rumbled as he immediately focused on the one face he didn’t know.

“This is Theon. He was raised as our father’s ward alongside us. He’s our brother,” Sansa explained, taking Theon’s hand protectively, looking up at Tormund like she was just daring him to contradict him. Apparently, she’d had variations of this conversation a lot since Theon arrived.

“Thee—” Jon could practically see Tormund’s mind working but didn’t have the chance to react before recognition clicked into place. “ _You’re_ the one who got him all messed up in the head on that dragon island.” He sounded accusing.

Jon spluttered. “That’s not—”

“ _I_ got _him_ messed up?” Theon said at the same time, disbelief written clear as day on his face, rounding up on Jon and already halfway out of his chair, their truce apparently forgotten. "The fuck did you tell him, Snow?"

Arya leaned back in her seat with crossed arms, an amused smirk on her face, while Sansa looked completely flummoxed for probably the first time in a very long while. Bran just serenely watched the scene unfolding in front of him.

“I didn't say anything,” Jon said, defensively, immediately feeling like the stupid boy he’d been a lifetime ago.

Tormund snorted. It sounded suspiciously like “liar.” Jon was starting to suspect that Tormund was taking the piss.

“I only told him what … happened,” he replied, non-committal.

“And which included that you were the one who started it?” Theon said, starting to sound a little hysterical. “I don’t want to get involved in any of …” He made a vague hand motion that seemed to involve all of Jon and most of Tormund. “This. It was a stupid thing between boys.”

“You couldn’t if you wanted to. You're too little.” Tormund replied and now Jon _definitely_ knew that he was taking the piss.

“A stupid thing between boys?” Arya repeated, her expression caught between disbelief and a smirk. “All that time you spent at each other’s throats?”

Jon prayed to the gods that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, his face feeling hot.

“Gods’ sakes, Jon.” Sansa shook her head.

Tormund broke out in a wide grin. “I was promised food.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arya found Jon in the crypts earlier in the day of the ceremony. They hadn’t really had the opportunity to spend much time alone with each other since he’d returned, both too busy with preparations for the coming siege, and him too busy shut up in Sansa’s solar with Sansa and Tormund preparing for the wedding.

He was sitting on the floor in front of Robb’s statue, only recently finished, feeling like all the weight of the world had come crashing down on him.

“There’s still time to find a horse and run far away,” Arya said and Jon jumped. His little sister had become far too quiet. “I’ll distract Sansa.” Jon turned around and looked at Arya’s mischievous smirk, that, years ago, had meant she’d swiped something from the kitchens.

Jon shook his head. “It’s starting to sink in, that I’m doing this.” He looked up at Robb’s stony expression. “Robb married for love and it cost him his head.”

“No. _Treachery_ cost him his head,” Arya replied grimly, resting her hand on Needle’s pommel. “Most of those responsible are dead and I’ll make sure that this ends with all of them dead.” She fell quiet, she, too, looking up at Robb’s statue.

“What happened to the Freys?” he asked, slowly, pondering if he really wanted that question answered, but the words were already out before he had come to a conclusion.

“I did.” Jon focused on his sister, so short, and yet so deadly, but she didn’t elaborate. He didn’t press the issue further. Whatever she had learned in Essos, maybe it was better not to know.

“I was too late, for him. I was just outside the Twins when it happened.” Arya continued, after they’d been silent for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

“You couldn’t have done anything. You were a child.”

“I know that now. I saw Grey Wind die. Sometimes, I still dream of it,” she admitted, her voice breaking.

He drew her into his arms, and she let herself melt into him. “They were alone, Robb and Grey Wind. And Rickon. But we’re together now, all of us left,” he mumbled into her hair.

“The pack survives,” Arya replied into his chest.

They stayed down there for a while, with their ghosts. Robb and Grey Wind, Rickon and Shaggydog, Summer and Lady. Father, and even Lady Catelyn. And somewhere, in the very back of Jon’s mind, Lyanna.

 

* * *

 

 

Lanterns illuminated the entire way from the castle into the godswood, towards the weirwood tree. The snow reached almost up to his knees. Jon was glad for Sansa’s comforting hand on his arm, as they quietly followed the path. “It’ll be alright,” she assured him quietly.

The walk felt longer than usual, yet it still seemed too short when the assembled wedding party came into view. It was larger than he had expected. It was a motley crew of mostly Free Folk, standing separate from a handful of the Northern lords, the young Lyanna Mormont, Ned Umber and Alys Karstark clustered together. Surprisingly, Lords Manderly and Royce and Lady Waynwood were in attendance, too. He had expected them of all people to remain absent, the Faith of the Seven disapproving of invert relations while the Northmen who held with the Old Gods mostly didn’t care one way or the other, so long as it was kept quiet. Jon supposed this was quite the opposite.

Arya, a wide smile on her face, stood with Gendry, Lady Brienne, _Jaime fucking Lannister_ – how times had changed – and Ser Davos. Daenerys’ silver hair stood out among them all, Missandei and Grey Worm on her left, Tyrion on her right. He looked absolutely miserable in the snow, seeming to regret his decision to attend. Jon was surprised she had come. She couldn’t have been happy with the decisions him, Tormund and Sansa had made. As he looked at her, she nodded at him, a tight expression on her face. Then she looked at Sansa next to him, and her expression softened. Well, then.

Bran was sat in his chair by the tree, looking serene, a blanket over his knees. Ghost lay in the snow beside him, like an overly large guard dog. Jon took a deep breath before he dared to look at the large man beside him. Tormund was dressed in clothes that had obviously been made by Sansa. He was wearing a deep brown doublet under a fur-trimmed coat, all of them deceptively simple and unmarked where House heraldry would have ordinarily been. He might have looked uncomfortable if it wasn’t for that look of absolute adoration on his face. Jon couldn’t help the large grin he felt creep up on his face.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Bran asked, his voice deep and carrying. No, he wasn’t a boy anymore. Not quite human anymore either, maybe, but a man grown nonetheless.

Sansa took a breath and pronounced, loud and clear: “Jon Snow, of House Stark, the King in the North, comes here to be wed. A man grown, tr- valiant and noble. He comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim him?” Her hand on his arm tightened and the cloak, doubling as Jon's maiden and Tormund's wedding cloak, across his shoulders felt heavy with purpose.

Jon suppressed a chuckle at her slight stumble when she almost called him “trueborn” during her recitation of the traditional words. It almost made him forget that she had still insisted on titling him as king. When they decided to honour him as being of House Stark – and _only_ House Stark – during the ceremony, they had also decided on using their relations they had thought themselves to be growing up, with all that entailed. Although, he supposed, it hadn’t really been _their_ decision, when Sansa had handed him the cloak done in inverted Stark colours.

There was an awkward silence. Jon stared daggers at Tormund, who was just _looking_ at him with that grin on his face, his mouth working. He coughed. “Ah, right. Tormund, of the Free Folk of the True North. Who gives him?”

“Sansa, head of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, who is his sister.”

“Jon, will you take this man?”

“I take this man.” Jon didn’t trust his voice to remain as steady as it did.

Here, they deviated from the traditional Northern wedding. Bran spoke again, “Tormund, will you take this man?”

Tormund looked as though he could barely suppress a laugh himself as he replied. “I take this man.” Sansa’s grip on his arm tightened again before she let go and stepped aside, taking her place next to Theon, quietly linking her arm with his. Her part was done.

Then, Jon joined his hands with Tormund’s and together they knelt, in the deep winter snow. Jon knew he was supposed to spend this moment praying, but all he was aware of was the snow seeping through his trousers. The sight of snow, combined with his wet knees, only made him realise again how odd it was that he didn’t feel the cold that should have come along with it. The only heat he felt came from Tormund’s hand in his.

Tormund squeezed his hand and Jon opened his eyes to look at him. A giant smile was spreading on his face, accompanied by a questioning quirk of his eyebrow. Jon got to his feet, Tormund following suit. As they stood, Jon unfastened the cloak Sansa had so carefully embroidered, the stiffness in his fingers the only testament of the cold.

They had switched up the way the wedding vows were to be done, but none of the guests, not many in number who followed the Northmen’s way of the Old Gods to begin with, had seemed to mind that Jon had taken the place that was traditionally the bride’s. And if they did, they had kept their mouths shut, as had been asked of them. Small mercies, he supposed.

He stood on the tip of his toes to wrap it around Tormund, who slouched a little, that godsdamned smirk back on his face, to help him close the clasp around his throat. It, too, was two hammered direwolves, in a run, their tails linking and closing both sides. Jon gave him a thankful smile.

Here was where they deviated again, to honour the Free Folk’s ways, such as they were. Tormund’s daughters came up – the younger almost up to her waist in the snow, holding tightly onto the older one’s hand – both with braided hair that looked suspiciously like Sansa’s handiwork. Fryd offered up a simple hunting knife by the blade. Tormund took it, inspected it, and, lightning fast, held it to Jon’s throat.

Jon knew to expect it, they had discussed on how to incorporate the Free Folk’s way into the ceremony. Tormund had -- more than once -- pointed out that they would ordinarily just say some words to each other in front of the tree, but Sansa insisted that the Northern lords would expect _something_ , an exchange of some sort, to show they were now bonded. So, they’d decided to lean into the abduction narrative. It wasn’t subtle in the least.

It still was unsettling, having the man he loved and trusted unconditionally suddenly hold a knife to his pulse. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Tormund drew blood, just a little nick at the surface of the skin. Then he flipped it, offering the handle to Jon, who took and sheathed it.

Sansa had walked over to Bran, and, with a little effort and help from Theon, pushed him a way away from the heart tree, to join Arya. Now it was just Jon and Tormund, Ghost at both their feet, almost one with the snow, alone with the gods.

Jon looked at Tormund, who seemed at a loss for words, now. “You don’t get to laugh at our ways when you don’t know what to say at yours,” he said quietly, bumping his shoulder against Tormund’s.

“I was so busy learning your words, I didn’t really think about what to say before now,” Tormund replied, just as quietly. He hoped their conversation wouldn’t carry. This was for them alone.

“Do you want me to begin?”

Tormund shook his head and went quiet for another moment before speaking. His voice was thick with emotion. “When I met you, I didn’t think we would spend a night in front of a weirwood tree five years later. Though I suppose you getting on your knees the first time you saw me was a very pretty sight and is something I did get used to.”

Jon almost choked on his laugh. He didn’t think this was exactly what one was supposed to say when witnessed by the gods. Tormund sobered.

“I didn’t really know what ‘honour’ meant until you shot Mance. It means you try to be fair to your enemies, and that’s when I started respecting you. You gave us a new home, despite everyone telling you not to. It probably was the worst of all the bad decisions you’ve made and you paid dearly for that.” His words almost tumbled out of his mouth now, among laboured breaths. “When you were dead, it was the most horrible experience of my life. Worse than losing my home. That is when I knew that I was truly lost.

“So, having you back, I swore that I would never let you go. And then you went up and sent me away to that horrible fortress at the Wall and then I thought you dead _again_ , and you sent me away again and then a fucking ice dragon attacked me and somehow I survived even that. So, I’m taking that as a sign that I definitely should not let you out of my sight ever again. You also still look _very_ pretty on your knees. No matter how long or short they will be, I want to spend the rest of our days and nights with you.”

Jon didn’t know when he started crying but when he blinked at Tormund through his tears, he was glad to see that Tormund was, too. A tear was stuck on his eyelash and he looked only mildly irritated. He took a deep breath before he began saying his words, which he _had_ rehearsed and now feared would seem stale in comparison, “I never thought I would find someone to spend my life with. I joined the Night’s Watch to ensure I didn’t … have to. That clearly didn’t turn out the way I expected, but I’m glad it did because it means that I met you. And despite everything and everyone I- we have lost, I’m glad to have found you, to know that I can count on you being by my side, to take care of me, whatever I need.

“I remember during the battle with the Boltons, I thought I would get trampled to death and that was the most terrifying moment of my life, worse than getting stabbed or almost drowning surrounded by wights. But you were there, to pull me out, you _grounded_ me, made me realise who I am and what I was fighting for. I don’t think I could have gone on if you hadn’t been there. And I’m so grateful for that. Grateful that I know you’ll be there when I wake up, to tell me I’m being reckless and stupid but also showing me you care. You care so much and I hope every day I’m worthy of that. You’re who I want to spend the rest of our lives with.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath that shook him to his core and Tormund was on him before he could exhale. Tormund’s lips were chapped against his, hot breath and his body heat a welcome reminder he could still feel the heat other people exuded. Jon kissed him back, hard, closing the distance between them completely, his body pressed against Tormund’s completely, even though it meant he had to crane his neck to an uncomfortable angle. His hands found Tormund’s beard and hair and he held on for dear life.

“Boys,” Sansa hissed audibly, and apologetically, Jon pulled away, placing a small peck on Tormund’s lips. He almost missed them as Tormund turned his head towards Sansa, with a clearly irritated expression on his face.

“Save it for later, we have a feast to get to,” Sansa said without mercy. Tormund’s daughters were by her side, her hand on Annlaug’s shoulder. Fryd had her back straight, eyes scanning the crowd, as if expecting an ambush. Jon needed to stop thinking about her as a child and start thinking about her as part of his army. She had been part of the Eastwatch garrison, after all, and to think of her as less would mean to disrespect her.

 

* * *

 

 

At the feast, when they thought themselves unwatched, Daenerys and Sansa quietly exchanged whispers, Daenerys’ hand lingering on Sansa’s arm for just a moment too long before she went to her entourage, further down the High Table.

Once he managed to untangle himself from Tormund’s grasp, Jon sunk into the seat beside Sansa’s. “Please don’t tell me you’re just sleeping with her to keep her temper in check.”

“Please. I’m not an amateur.” Sansa looked genuinely offended. “Despite everything, I think she’s smart and nobody could overlook the fact that she’s gorgeous. Also, very impressive with her … everything.” She made a helpless gesture with her hands that could mean anything and everything. He had rarely seen Sansa at a loss for words.

“She could burn everything down if we survive the Night King. If she doesn’t get what she wants, or expects, in the aftermath.”

Her mouth set in a hard line. “I’m aware.”

“What are you going to do?” His heart ached for her, having just got everything he could ever hope for. She had more ambition, more pride, than he did, and it seemed like it would only cause her hurt. He couldn’t see her wavering from her plans for the North, despite her personal feelings.

“I don’t know yet. Just let me have this for the moment.” She calmly held his gaze, but he could see the conflict beneath the surface. “We have to survive this first.” How he hadn’t seen this earlier, he didn’t know. But then, he had been fairly oblivious about many things concerning Sansa before.

“Come on. Go have fun. It’s your wedding, after all.”

 

* * *

 

 

What felt like hours and far too many drinks and drunken toasts and Northerners and Free Folk alike thumping him heartily on the back later, Jon utterly failed not to panic when he found Tormund sitting at a table in a corner, talking to Theon and Sansa. He rushed over, only to find them engaged into what seemed like a civil, serious conversation.

Tormund was looking at Theon’s fingers, or rather, what was left of them. “You are an archer?”

“I was.” He held up his mutilated hand, the one missing fingers. “Can’t nock an arrow anymore.”

Tormund shook his head, not understanding. “Why not?”

“We use a different grip than you do,” Jon, having noticed the way Fryd and Ygritte nocked their arrows, explained.

“So? Then change it. My daughter, Fryd, could teach you. She’s been showing your lot how to fight anyway.”

Theon looked from Tormund to Jon, then back to Tormund, looking for all the world like his nameday had come early. “You have a daughter?” He looked back at Jon. “You—”

“Not. A. Word,” Jon interrupted, and, of course, was completely ignored. Sansa sniggered, sounding more like Arya than herself. Her cheeks had turned a shade of pink that clashed marvellously with her hair and she took another drink out of her suspiciously empty mug.

“Two,” Tormund corrected, bursting at the seams with fatherly pride, leaning across the table towards Theon on his forearms. “Fryd is fifteen and Annlaug is seven. Fryd was with the forces at Eastwatch and commanded the night's watch,” he chuckled to himself at that, while Jon felt the need to vanish into the floor, “and one of the huntresses has started teaching Annlaug trapping. I’m taking her out for tracking the day after tomorrow, if the snowfall’s light enough.”

“You're going to be responsible for raising a child.” Theon said, obviously marvelling at the thought.

“That's not really—” Jon started, but immediately gave up.

Theon looked at Sansa, so carefree, the horrors that had been his life forgotten for this short evening, that he let his old, full smile show. The gap between his teeth was incredibly unsettling in that old expression of his. “Thank you for insisting I come.”

“I’m going to leave now,” Jon declared and fled. Tormund immediately seemed to launch into another story and Jon vowed to never be alone with Theon Greyjoy ever again. He would never hear the end of it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Jon,” Daenerys’ voice was tight as she approached him. “I thought about what you said, before. This might be stupid and I might regret it later, especially if what you said about your plans for the North turns out to be truthful, but I want you to try and mount Rhaegal tomorrow. We’re going to need all the advantage we can get to survive the Long Night and that includes not wasting someone who could be a dragon rider. We can worry about what comes afterwards later.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“See it as a very generous wedding gift.” She looked at him. “Nephew.”

“If he doesn’t eat me, you mean.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “He’s not going to eat you. You’ve already bonded with him, he obviously knew you were my blood before we did.”

Tormund’s hand was warm as it landed on his shoulder. “I won’t let you get eaten,” he said gruffly, looking down at both of them. “Anyway, Sansa and the squid lad told me a delightful story about something you people call the bedding.”

While Jon was still absolutely mortified about the idea of Sansa and Theon, of all people, to inform Tormund about that tradition, he was thrown over Tormund’s shoulder without any breath wasted. “That’s not how it’s done,” Jon protested feebly.

“Well, I’m stealing you _and_ I’m bedding you,” Tormund said, the grin on his face audible. “I've barely seen you all night, so it’s about time we did something about it.”

Daenerys shook her head at them but was distracted by Sansa coming over. As he was carried out, he could see Tyrion raise his cup for a toast, Jaime Lannister beside him was leaning very closely into Lady Brienne, who didn’t seem to mind as much as he thought she would. He was carried past Arya dancing with Gendry – or rather, him almost stepping on her toes and apologising profusely, and her stepping neatly out of the way every single time – and Davos talking to Lady Mormont, who looked very crossly at Ser Jorah, sat next to Tyrion. Alys Karstark was talking to one of the Free Folk, and it wasn’t quite clear whether the blush on her face was from drink alone. Luckily, it wasn’t a Thenn.

Well, then. This was an odd gathering, to say the least.

 

* * *

 

 

They were stopped in the hall by both of Tormund’s daughters. Annlaug looked somehow more imposing than Fryd, which was quite the feat, considering he knew Fryd could and would kill a man. “If you make our father unhappy, I will personally gut you,” the girl said, fingering a dagger.

“If I make your father unhappy, you have permission to gut me,” Jon replied, as dignified as possible while still slung over his husband’s shoulder.

Fryd laconically grinned at him. “I’m just glad you finally tied the knot, all this mooning back at Eastwatch was unbearable.” She rolled her eyes.

“I do not moon,” Tormund replied, huffing indignantly. “To hear you say that, after all I’ve done to bring you into this world.”

“Please. Mother did the hard work,” Fryd replied mercilessly, stepping aside. “Now, off you go.”

Annlaug waved the dagger at him, Fryd firmly taking her hand, quietly admonishing her. “You’re old enough to know better than to point weapons at people you don’t mean to hurt.”

It was all very undignified, to say the least, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did just spend the first half of this holiday in bed trying to finish this and I don't regret a thing. Except that my coffee is now cold. The sacrifice!


	3. Breathing

Jon half-expected to be thrown on the bed and for Tormund to make short work of most of their clothes. So, of course, Tormund, ever the contrarian, had other ideas. He gently set him down on the foot of his – or was it truly theirs now? – bed and braced himself on his knees, bracketing Jon between them.

“How are you?” he asked, voice heavy with more than just drink. Tormund’s fingers had already found their way into Jon’s hair and Jon suppressed the impulse to lean into his touch. A slight moan still left his mouth. Tormund chuckled. “That’s not an answer.”

Jon raised his hand, to link it with the one in his hair, pulled it out and towards his mouth, turning it so he could place a kiss on the back of it, like one of the knights in Sansa’s tales. “I’m good,” he said, and it didn’t even feel like a lie anymore. “I’m finally good, Tormund.”

Tormund rumbled, looked at him, really _looked_ at him, like he was about to find the answer to every question in his eyes, and then the look in his eyes became impossibly soft. “That’s good. You’ve been hurting for as long as I’ve known you.” He squeezed Jon’s fingers with his own, much larger, hand. “For someone who vowed to have forsaken all family bonds, it’s awfully obvious how much you’ve hurt without them. Lost.”

“Don’t,” Jon started, but he was cut off by Tormund immediately. “It’s not a bad thing, little crow. Without our family, without our loved ones, who are we?”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Jon replied, quietly. “Bran and Sam and Daenerys saw to that.”

“No.” Tormund growled at him, bringing his face down to look at Jon, their foreheads touching. “Shut up. You’re still who you were before. You’re still Jon Snow, King Crow, and now you’re _mine_.” And then he bit down. Jon _howled_ , his cock, only mildly interested before, made lethargic by drink, practically strained against his breeches. Tormund smirked as he lowered his hand to touch him. “You’re so predictable.”

“Fuck you,” Jon breathed, but his laboured breath marked him a liar, and not a very good one.

“We just might do that,” Tormund agreed, touching his fingertips to the bite mark he’d left on Jon’s neck. Jon shuddered under his touch, his cock achingly hard. Tormund was still sitting astride him and he didn’t seem inclined to move, even though that position couldn’t be comfortable for him. Jon pulled Tormund close and down, his mouth searching for his, seeking contact, seeking his heat. Tormund pulled back and Jon whined.

Tormund grinned at him, taking the hem of his shirt in hand and pulling it over his head, doing the same to Jon’s. “Your sister would kill us if we ruined these,” he said, bunching them both up and throwing them vaguely in the direction of the headboard, “and I don’t fancy my chances against her wrath.”

“Don’t mention Sansa while we’re getting naked, please. Also, we still might ruin them, you threw them directly on the bed.”

“I don’t intend on fucking you up there, I intend to stay right here.” And then he ground his hips against Jon’s body, telling him exactly how interested, he, too, was.

“We need oil,” Jon stated, matter-of-factly, gesturing vaguely towards the nightstands. “Which is over there.”

“You have so little faith in me,” Tormund said, pulling a jar out of his pocket and Jon idly wondered if that had been there the whole evening, or if it hadn’t, _when_ exactly he’d gone to fetch it. “Now, do you want me to get ready myself or do you want to do it?”

Jon swallowed around the clump that had suddenly risen in his throat. “I … would like to watch you.”

Tormund nodded, but couldn’t quite seem to keep his thoughts to himself. “Of course you do.” Jon looked up with what must be alarm in his eyes because Tormund’s expression melted into something softer that belied his rudeness. “I _like_ being watched.”

He got up on his knees, shucking out of his breeches with a little help and then got right back into Jon’s lap, so close that it felt almost impossible to breathe. Tormund coated his fingers in the oil and without much preamble reached behind himself to prepare himself.

Jon watched his face, the way it moved and changed depending on the unseen movements of his own fingers inside himself. It was fascinating to watch. Tormund seemed to know exactly what Jon had been thinking when he asked to watch, because he took his time, fucking himself, his expression so open and unashamed. Jon reached for Tormund’s face, tangled his fingers in his beard and hair and pulled him down to kiss him hungrily, like they wouldn’t be able to breathe otherwise. Tormund smirked, pulling his fingers out of himself, freeing Jon’s cock out of his own breeches with slicked fingers.

“Are we ready, _Your Grace_?”

“Am _I_ ready?” Jon laughed, breathless. “I’ve been ready to spill since you bit me.” He touched the mark, too high up on his neck to hide comfortably.

“That’s not an answer.” Tormund closed his hand around Jon’s cock, but keeping it still, a grin on his lips, the flush on his neck and cheeks the only thing that belied his own state.

Instead of replying, Jon’s hands found Tormund’s arse and squeezed, feeling the oil Tormund had slicked himself with. “Aye,” he said hoarsely.

The angle was not ideal, but somehow Tormund managed to fit himself on top of Jon and sink on his cock. Jon marvelled at how close he was, the snugness of Tormund around him, their bodies pressed flush against each other, Tormund’s arms enclosed around him, pulling him in so close that his own face rested in the crook of Tormund’s shoulders and he had to fight the urge to bite down himself, his own head tucked below Tormund’s chin.

It was the most intimate he could ever think of being and then, Tormund _moved_. He wished he was able to say he lasted a long time, with Tormund fucking himself with Jon’s cock, riding him, but he spilled quickly, almost like a green boy, the closeness between them too much, too intimate.

After spilling himself, Tormund collapsed on top of him and it took a couple of tries before Jon managed to push him off of him. But he missed the intimacy immediately and so he reached for Tormund’s hand, pulled it close to him, and, with a large exhale, placed it over the beat of his heart.

Tormund seemed to startle for a moment, seeming intent to pull his hand back, but Jon gripped him tighter, settling them on the mottled patch of skin where he’d been stabbed. “It’s alright,” he whispered and Tormund inched closer, his hand flexing on the scar tissue and then settling with a quiet acceptance.

“Did not expect that,” Jon breathed then.

“What did you expect?” Tormund chuckled.

“The way you carried me off? To be ravished like a blushing maid, not _that_.”

“We’ll have the rest of our lives for ravishing,” Tormund said, voice low in his throat. “We don’t need to rush.” And then he got up, picked Jon up like he weighed nothing and dumped him on his furs in front of the fire. “Tonight, we’ll stay right here.” Jon couldn’t help but feel alright with that.

 

* * *

 

 

Tormund broke the comfortable silence much later, when they both still lay naked and half-asleep in front of the fire, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the curve of Jon’s stomach and chest, tracing the shape of his scars. “You spoke to Birgit, eh? Got her approval?”

Jon groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I got … something.”

Tormund took his hand and peeled it off his face. He was hovering awfully close. “It was approval,” he repeated.

“She called me little.”

“You are,” Tormund replied fondly.

They fell quiet again after that, relaxing to the sound of the crackling wood on the fire, Jon enjoying Tormund’s body heat. He was almost sorry when he broke the silence again, to speak the thoughts that had been itching away at the back of his mind. “So what happens … after?”

“After what?” Tormund grumbled. He sounded half-asleep.

“After we defeat the Night King. After Daenerys wins her stupid throne and her and Sansa have the most spectacular fallout.” It still made his heart hurt, to think of them, that they had started their affair knowing what it would lead to. Their goals were too opposed to each other and they were both too hard-headed, too stubborn for it to have a happy ending.

“You’re being awfully optimistic, Snow. What makes you think we’ll survive any of this?” Tormund asked, his hand spread out over Jon’s stomach.

“I have to. If I don’t believe we’ll survive … If we don’t, what was the point of all of this?”

“I’ve learned since I could walk that life can be cut too short, and I’ve seen it. Good people have died young, and we need to seize the opportunities we have, because tomorrow might never come.” He swallowed, his fingers curling into a fist over Jon’s stomach. “And at least like this, after we die, we’ll still be together.”

His fingers linked with Tormund’s, drawing him in close. He wished it was that easy, that he could believe, just like that. “There isn’t anything. I’ve seen it and there’s nothing.”

“Maybe you’ve seen nothing because you weren’t supposed to see yet. Dead men aren’t supposed to come back and talk about what happens after.”

“Dead men aren’t supposed to come back,” Jon corrected him gently.

Tormund shook his head. “I’m glad you did. I’m glad your eyes are still brown.”

They stayed that way, in silence, Jon on his back, Tormund at his side, their hands intertwined with each other. “So, what happens, after we defeat the dead?” Jon asked again.

Tormund stayed quiet for a moment, seriously considering the question this time. “I’d like to stay close to my family. Birgit could be persuaded to not leave too far north with Annlaug, if I ask her nicely.”

Jon nodded. He’d expected that, but it didn’t make it any easier. He was done, with everything. With lords and ladies and their petty grievances. “I don’t want to put Sansa’s claim to the North into question. And I don’t want any people to look at me like I’m their leader anymore. Who knows what title they’ll want to give me next.”

Tormund snorted into his side. “Alright. Then we’ll see the girls settled somewhere within sight of the True North, so they don’t forget their roots, and then fuck off into what passes for wilderness around here. Aye?”

Jon felt a smile widen on his own lips, as if they were acting on their own accord, his problems solved so easily that he didn’t even think about it himself. He turned onto his side, to look his husband in the eyes. He found nothing there but warmth and acceptance.

“Aye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for vanishing off the face of the planet like that. There were unforeseen circumstances after I got through my exams, such as my ADD being a bitch and medication adjustments for said ADD, then my internet at home decided to act up again and then _I_ fucked off into the woods for a week. 
> 
> I apologise for this being such a relatively short chapter, but when what was supposed to be a short epilogue turned into a beast of its own, I decided to split it in two. But the epilogue is only missing a couple of checks and balances, so it won't take two months to get THAT posted at least.
> 
> Also, just as a warning, this fic will probably change titles soon. I wasn't happy with it to begin with, I just need to think of something more appropriate, but at the moment all I listen to is Of Monsters and Men and THAT is Throbb/Theonsa Central, so IDK. If anyone happens to have a good idea, I'm willing to entertain ideas. ;)
> 
> As always: thank you so much for reading and ESPECIALLY for your patience this time around.


	4. Epilogue: Living

After the war in the South was done, Jon and Tormund stayed exactly the amount of time it took to see Sansa crowned in Winterfell. The morning after, they said their goodbyes; Theon gruffly shook Tormund’s hand and clapped Jon on the back, Arya made threatening motions in Tormund’s direction before throwing her arms around Jon so hard that it felt like she wanted to strangle him, Bran accepted Jon’s hug as stoically as ever, while Sansa looked like she was trying not to cry while she hugged Tormund for much longer than Jon had expected so when he hugged Sansa, she was still clinging to Tormund.

After they’d said their goodbyes, they mounted two horses, with just two pack horses, and took off north. Ghost joined them some time after noon, the blood of a fresh kill staining his fur red.

They settled in Brandon’s Gift, a day’s ride off from the village in which Fryd, Annlaug and their mother had settled, Annlaug with her mother, Fryd in a little hut by herself. Their house was small, and, to be truthful, the bed was the largest piece of furniture in there, taking up most of the space, like Jon’s childhood bed had done. The proportions were different, though. Jon had marvelled at the fact that Tormund had wanted to build a house at all. When he raised the issue, Tormund had just shrugged and replied, “you Southerners don’t do _everything_ wrong. We’re staying, so might as well build something permanent.”

The White Walkers’ eradication had seemingly shortened the threat of the long winter, but still, winter lasted three years. At the end of the second year, Ghost, having been absent for almost two months, returned home with a mate and a litter of six pups that had barely opened their eyes. Tormund broke into raucous laughter when he came home the following day from a week-long hunt with Annlaug and found Jon helplessly on the floor in front of the fire, with three pups in his lap, Ghost and his surprisingly tame mate asleep in front of it, three pups turned into their parents’ fur.

 

* * *

 

The first spring melts brought with them a visit from the Queen in the North, who was inspecting the villages the Free Folk who had chosen to stay had established during the winter. While some had left for north of the Wall again, some had stayed and still held to their own nomadic ways, some opened relations with the hill clansmen, others, like Tormund’s family, had adopted the Northerners’ ways and settled into villages left vacant in the Gift.

Tormund and Jon lived off the course of the royal progress, absent from any roads, but Tormund’s family, traitors that they were, had helpfully pointed Sansa in the right direction, and she arrived in the late afternoon, with only one of her Queensguard and her closest advisor.

And so it happened that Jon returned from the lean-to that held their drying firewood to restock the supply in the house to his sisters and Theon settled in front of the fire like they had been there for hours, all of them holding bowls of Tormund’s specialty of chewy, brown mush. Even sitting down, Sansa filled the room with her presence. She warmly smiled up at him, while Arya jumped up to hug him, nearly dropping her soup on Theon. “You arsehole,” she said, while her grip tightened around him that it became hard to breathe. “Forgot how to write?”

Jon desperately searched for an adequate reply, but Arya only seemed to squeeze him tighter.

“What’s this then?” Theon asked by way of greeting, pointing at the direwolves. The smallest, light grey, was curiously stalking around him, not quite making contact yet. Another one was already sniffing Sansa’s hand, the one that held her bowl. The other two were blessedly asleep.

“There was six of them. Annlaug and Fryd have already been adopted by two of them, but the others are starting to take up too much space. They need their own pack,” Jon replied after Arya let him go.

“Yeah, one wolf in bed was enough already, and now there’s just too many. The little ones need to go,” Tormund declared decisively.

“Anyway. There’s one for each of you left,” Jon said, matter-of-factly. “And it seems that one’s already taken a shine to you, Your Grace.” He winked at Sansa.

Sansa tutted. “Don’t you start with that.” The wolf that had been cautiously sniffing her licked her hand.

“And I think you forgot how to count, living out here with nobody but that big oaf keeping you company. I see _four_ more.” The one at Theon’s side bumped his head against Theon’s right hand, demanding to be pet, which Theon grouchily obeyed.

“That one’s yours, Greyjoy,” Jon declared, sniggering at Theon’s annoyed glare.

 

* * *

 

“How are you?” Jon asked Sansa, quietly, when they’d finished eating and broken out the ale. He knew Daenerys and Sansa hadn’t split on good terms. Sansa only remained Queen in the North for as long as she stayed in the North. South of the Neck, her life was forfeit. It was a self-inflicted exile, when she had chosen to uphold the North’s declaration of independence. As far as lovers’ spats went, it had been quite an impressive one. Drogon had been circling the Red Keep for days, matching Daenerys’ quiet fury inside. Jon had successfully managed to dodge her for a week, until he could finally go home.

Arya sniggered, taking a gulp of her ale. “An old friend of Bran’s is visiting. She’s not spending as much time with him as one might expect.”

“The Reeds are important bannermen of ours,” Sansa huffed, somehow managing to sound dignified despite that. Ale was sloshing over the brim of her mug.

“Sure. _That_ ’s what all the late-night meetings in your chambers were about.” Arya rolled her eyes, taking another, quite large gulp.

Sansa flushed, the colour rising from her cheeks to her hairline and beyond, but instead of dignifying Arya’s comment with a reply, she rose and walked over to their bed, the wolf that had all but adopted her following at her heels, over which the cloak she had sewn for their marriage hung proudly, as the only thing that spoke of the identity of the two hermits living in the woods, the only thing to link them to Jon’s old life, to who he’d been before. She reached for it, touched the wolves that represented Robb and Rickon. “I’m glad you kept this,” she said quietly, looking from Tormund to Jon.

“Of course we did,” Tormund grumbled. “You made it for us,” he added, like that settled the matter.

“Yours isn’t right anymore, though,” Jon said, looking at Sansa. “It needs a crown, too. Robb and I have one, when you’re the only one between the three of us who really has one.”

“I wasn’t queen when you married,” Sansa said softly, fingers hovering over the wolf holding the quill, herself.

“You were in all but title.” The look that passed between them, from former King to Queen, was theirs. Sansa was good at ruling, had been better at it than Jon even when he’d been declared king. She was loved by her people, at least Jon assumed so, but she must feel lonely sometimes. He had, and he’d had Tormund at his side. Sansa must still wonder sometimes, what it could have been like, to have stayed with Daenerys, put her own feelings above her responsibilities, like Jon had done. He was glad she still had Arya and Theon at her side, and even Bran, at least in a fashion.

“You know,” Tormund started slowly, and Jon came back to the present, because sentences started with that never end up _good_ , “If you ever want children, I’d happily father them. Just imagine them: They would be big and strong and smart and practically unstoppable. _And_ doubly kissed by fire.”

Jon almost choked on the sip of ale he’d taken. “Fucking. Really. Are you serious? That’s my _sister_.”

“What’s the problem? It stays in the family.”

“That _is_ the problem.”

“ _Southerners_.” Tormund said derisively and Jon wondered what that even meant in this particular context.

“You could marry Theon. It would quieten potential bastardry protests raised,” Arya suggested, shrugging her shoulders.

“Don’t give him ideas!”

“Theon can’t father children,” Sansa protested.

“We can just tell everyone the rumours were exaggerated. You already spend so much time together, half of Winterfell already thinks the two of you are at it like rabbits.”

Jon pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes, trying to will himself deaf. He looked over at Theon, who was also trying his very hardest not to follow the conversation, quietly petting the little wolf that had curled up on his lap and was now happily snoring away. His hands were shaking.

Sansa looked at Tormund out of narrowed eyes. Jon didn’t like it, it was her _seriously considering that idea_ face. “I’ll take your … _offer_ into consideration,” she said seriously, realising his worst fears.

Jon stared at her. “You can’t be seriously considering that idea. It’s daft.”

“It _would_ solve the problem,” Sansa repeats, looking Tormund up and down. Tormund preened, a large grin on his face and Jon almost expected him to start flexing.

He emptied his mug. “I don’t believe this.”

 

* * *

 

“What in seven hells, Tormund?” Jon asked by the time everyone had found their way to bed. Arya, Sansa and Theon had retired to the little hut that Tormund had added for his daughters to stay in during the second year.

“What are you mad about now, little crow?” Tormund grumbled sleepily into the back of his neck.

“I’m not mad.”

“No, you’re just radiating it.” Tormund’s hand curled around his hip, pulling him in tighter.

“Sansa.”

“What is it about Sansa?”

“You wanting to sleep with her, to start with.”

“’Want’ doesn’t come into play here.” Tormund’s fingers tightened possessively around Jon’s hip bone. “I respect her and it’s a solution to a problem she has. You know that having children together doesn’t mean you want to be with the person you’re having them with, not for my people. You people all told me how important your stupid House names are. _You’re_ not continuing it.” – “I _can’t_ ,” Jon bit through clenched teeth. – “Shut up, I’m making a point. I doubt the Raven could or would and Arya doesn’t seem to be too eager to do it either. You all fought for your people to be free, same as I did for mine, but what happens after you’re all gone? I offered because she knows I won’t want to claim her or usurp her throne, or whatever.”

The problem was, put like that, Jon actually started seeing Tormund’s point and he wondered if that meant he’d spent too much time cooped up with him. “I see. But I still don’t like it.”

Tormund’s beard tickled against the back of Jon’s neck as he started to grin. “Would it help if you could watch? We do that sometimes when two people who want to have children together for some reason can’t and use a third.”

“ _No_.”

“Pity. I’m very good at making children.”

Jon turned around, taking Tormund’s hand into his own, linking his fingers with his own, tugging at his hand just a little. “Oh, yeah?”

“I could show you right now,” Tormund purred, reaching below the blankets and furs, and Jon gasped as they slowly curled around his cock.

Red eyes opened to glare at them out of the darkness before the weight on the bed shifted and a white shadow jumped off the bed and joined his own mate on the rug in front of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all of you still reading for supporting this dumb, self-indulgent nonsense that veered so incredibly off the rails from where this series started off.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and especially thank you for your patience!
> 
> Kudos, comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated, even when I take ages to reply :)


End file.
